


Let Them Fall

by le_assian



Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/le_assian/pseuds/le_assian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crossover between BBC Sherlock and Skyfall<br/>When the famous Sherlock Holmes is called into a case of national security (despite all his grumbling), he is immediately put to work by the side of the great James Bond (if only Sherlock knew how great). Unfortunately, Sherlock is disdainful of this seemingly fallen hero, and nearly abandons the secret service then and there--when a familiar and infamous character arrives at the scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction: Part One

**Author's Note:**

> AU. Takes place between Moriarty's visit to Sherlock in "The Reichenbach Fall" and John Watson meeting Mycroft asking him to keep an eye on Sherlock (there is a two month time skip in the episode, which is when this FF takes place).  
> At this point, the file disk of the identities of the MI6 operatives has been taken, and 007 has passed all of the reentry tests.
> 
> My first crossover  
> so  
> let's see how this goes.

            “Sherlock,” prompted John Watson—war veteran, doctor, and unemployed bachelor, “have you seen these?”

            “Hm,” Sherlock Holmes—consulting detective, the only one in the world (he made up the occupation himself, after all)—grunted to show he had heard. He did not get up from his lying position on the couch, his hands pressed together in a praying form and pressed to his chin, as per his usual stance while he was trying to distract himself from the sheer boredom of the mundane.

            “Someone’s posted a video on YouTube.” Sherlock could hear the frown on Watson’s face. The doctor picked up the laptop and carried it over to his roommate, who didn’t even bother opening his eyes.

            “YouTube is a site devoted to posting videos, John,” Sherlock said, hardly moving his lips. “I don’t really understand why it’s a surprise to see someone posting a video onto there.”

            “Sherlock,” said Watson, “please. Take a look at this.”

            With a deep sigh as Sherlock carefully tried to keep his patience in check (it rarely worked), Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up to look at the laptop hovering at about chest level. He took it from Watson and made a decisive click to restart the video. He watched impassively at the frames that flashed by: men of various ethnicities and builds with two names appearing with two different images of the same man shown together. On these images were two names with an “equals” symbol between them. Presumably, these were equating real names with alias. The images flickered faster and faster until a dark screen appeared, with only a few words: “Five more. Every week.”

            The video ended. Sherlock blinked at the screen before looking at John, who was staring at him expectantly.

            “What?” Sherlock asked, shrugging a little and glancing back and forth, unsure what John was waiting for.

            “Sherlock, that doesn’t seem odd to you? At all?” John took a seat at the foot of the couch, perching on the arm of it. His brow was furrowed as he continued, “Those people are obviously involved in something.”

            “‘Obviously’?” Sherlock repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Pray, what’s so obvious about it?”

            Looking ruffled, John said, “Well, the photos seemed to have been taken on the sly, and they seemed to be in situation of duress…wouldn’t you say?”

            “Not at all,” Sherlock sighed, falling back into the couch and closing his eyes again. “That’s deplorably weak logic, John. For one thing, the images could have easily been edited using computer programs before being uploaded onto the Internet. For another, there is no way to tell the situations of the people that are featured in the photographs, or if those names are the real ones. In fact, those people may be dead, or may not exist at all. Again, photo manipulation.”

            John still looked unsure.

           “Honestly, John,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “there’s nothing to be concerned about. It’s a person having a laugh, that’s all. Now don’t bother me unless it’s something _interesting,_ will you?”

            With that, Sherlock shut his eyes once more so he could reconsider Moriarty’s recent visit perhaps three days ago. _I owe you a fall. I owe you a fall. I owe you a fall._ He had played with the phrase over and over in his mind, emphasized each word over and over in different combinations an permutations, reshaped the syllables and translated the phrase into possibly every language he could think of.

             A little bothered that Sherlock had not taken the video seriously—although not particularly annoyed (John learned not to be irritated, anymore)—John took back the laptop and retreated to the desk again. The video was still nagging at him. He returned to the video and watched it again. No, there was definitely something off about it. There was a certain ominous feel about it. But a feeling was not enough to spur the great Sherlock Holmes into motion. John stole a glance at his roommate, who had not seemed to have even twitched in the past few minutes.

            The video’s page had no comments (in fact, comments were blocked), and the uploader had an unassuming screen name and no profile image. As far as John could tell, this was their first video (although, if the message at the end was anything to go by, there would be another one next week). Frowning a little, John looked up the first name that showed on the video: Andrew Surrey.

            There were quite a few results—well, it wasn’t exactly an uncommon name—but when John clicked on the first few links, none of the images or profiles seemed to match the serious looking man in the video. Perhaps Sherlock was right; the video’s Andrew Surrey simply did not exist. But for some reason, John was sure this was no simple prank.

            Sherlock’s phone rang. John instinctively rose from his chair to fetch it from Sherlock’s long overcoat, draped over the back of one of the armchairs. Sometimes, John would remember when he first met Sherlock and how irritated he would get when Sherlock ordered him to fetch his phone from within his own pocket. Now, it seemed only natural. It made John laugh a bit sardonically to himself, sometimes.

            “It’s your brother,” John called over from the cluttered dining table.

            “Hang up,” Sherlock replied dryly, which was the exact response John had expected. He sighed and answered the phone despite Sherlock’s wishes.

            “Mycroft,” John greeted him. “It’s John.”

            “Where’s my brother?”

            _Yes, hello to you, as well._ “He can’t really come to the phone right now.”

            “Put him on.”

            The voice was so authoritative that John resigned himself to approaching Sherlock and presenting the phone to him. Sherlock glared at him reproachfully— _Didn’t I tell you to hang up?_ —before snatching the cell from John’s hand and saying into it, “What do you want?”

            John stood with polite curiosity and an innocent expression in the living area, looking down at Sherlock, who looked distinctly impatient with Mycroft. Then again, he always looked that way when talking to his brother. He didn’t betray any other emotions, however.

            “No,” Sherlock said shortly in reply to whatever Mycroft had said. John’s best guess was that it was a case of some sort, so of course Sherlock was going to deny it—simply because it was Mycroft that was asking.

            “Why should I?” Sherlock asked next. A few second later, he scoffed, “Those sorts of things don’t concern me.” Another pause. “Then I suggest you do your job.” Sherlock cut off the line before carelessly throwing the phone onto the coffee table piled high with dishes and old newspapers.

            “What did he want?” John asked, sensing that Sherlock wanted to rant. He himself was not overly curious as to what Mycroft wanted. Or rather, he could take a good guess at what he wanted, already. Mycroft did not exactly ring out of the blue out of brotherly love.

            “Some case about _national security_ ,” he said scornfully. “Nothing of import.”

            “Of course,” John nodded and smiled sarcastically, although Sherlock didn’t notice; his eyes were closed, again.

            “Are there any more nicotine patches?” he asked suddenly.

            “Yes, there should be,” John said, striding over to the desk and opening up some drawers. When he didn’t see any, he moved onto a dresser. “I swear we had another two ex—”

            In response, Sherlock rolled up his shirt sleeve to reveal three nicotine patches slapped onto his forearm. John cast a gaze to the ceiling and shut the dresser door.

            “You know, that really _doesn’t_ count as ‘getting off of it’,” John pointed out.

            “Technicalities.”

            Suddenly, Sherlock’s phone began to ring, again. Sherlock slammed his hand onto the table as if he was looking to squash an extra grotesque fly. Instead, he grabbed his phone and looked at the caller ID. He proceeded to throw the phone in a random direction—which happened to be in John’s. He ducked as the projectile approached, then glanced over his shoulder to make sure nothing had broken when it landed.

            “Mycroft?” John took a guess.

            “Yes.”

            “Don’t you think you should take the case?” John prodded him, the phone still ringing in the background. “It must be important.”

            “ _Everything_ is important to you and Mycroft,” Sherlock groaned. “Who _cares_ if it’s ‘important’? I wouldn’t care if the case would make the world explode if it’s boring. Maybe if the world started ending, things would start to get a bit more _fun_ around here.”

            John settled for picking up the phone off the floor, intending to at least turn off the damn ringer, but at that moment, the call ended.

            “Well, looks like he’s given—” John started as the phone gave a sharp _ding._ He unlocked the phone to view the message that had arrived and made a strange chocking noise.

            “Um, Sherlock,” John swallowed. “I think you should take the case.”

            “For the last—”

            “A hundred thousand,” John interrupted him. Sherlock shifted a little to glance at John.

            “What?”

            “A hundred thousand pounds for helping him on the case,” John repeated in a strangled voice. With another ding from the phone, John said, “No, wait—two hundred thousand.”

            Sherlock rose from his lying position, now sitting upright on the couch. His eyebrows were knit together, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

            “Three thousand,” John read off, walking over to Sherlock, who was now standing up. His eyes had the rare quality of confusion in them. Evidently, he was just as mystified as John as to why Mycroft would actually try to _bribe_ Sherlock into the taking the case.

            “Four—No, five, now.”

            _Ding._

“Six.”

            _Ding._

            “Seven.”

            _Ding_

“Ei—”

            Sherlock seized the phone and called Mycroft, putting the phone to his ear. While he didn’t like his brother, and while the case might not have been particularly interesting, money was money. Sherlock might’ve been graciously repaid for his cases, especially after all the publicity he’d been getting lately, but John was, sadly, out of work. Any sort of money that they were offered—especially when it was near a million pounds—they took without much complaint.

            “What sort of case is this?” Sherlock asked into the phone. He listened for a moment, his eyes flashing, before he snorted.

            “Of course you won’t. Fine. We’ll meet you at the usual spot, then. Yes, he’s coming.” Sherlock paused, his eyes narrowing minutely. Without another word, he ended the call.

            “Something wrong?”

            “He says you’re not allowed to come,” Sherlock grumbled, pushing past John to get his long coat and pocketing his phone. “Something about confidentiality or something or other.”

            “Oh” was all John could manage. He pressed his lips together for a moment before he shrugged and sat down in one of the armchairs, taking a random newspaper from the table and opening it. He pretended to be very fascinated with the newest scandal about some movie star and carefully avoided reading the articles about Sherlock—and himself.

            “What are you doing?”

            “I’m sitting,” John supplied somewhat shortly before shutting his eyes to gather his patience. It was not Sherlock that was keeping him from coming, it was Mycroft. In fact, Sherlock would probably encourage him to come, even if it offended the Queen, herself.

            “Clearly, this case is much too highly confidential for me to go see it myself,” John shrugged, looking up at Sherlock, who seemed a little lost without John about to leave out the door with him. “Just go solve it and get the money.”

            “But—”

            “I expect a full recount of the case when you return.”

            Sherlock blinked before the corner of his mouth jerked upwards once. “Certainly.”

            He straightened the scarf around his neck and strode out. “Don’t wait up.”

            “Wasn’t planning to,” John mumbled into the paper as he heard the door close. 


	2. Introduction: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold, he enters.

            When the great Sherlock Holmes ventured out of his home for the first time without John while the press was outside, it went vastly better than he had expected—which is to say, it went badly. He turned up the collar of his trademark jacket so that it would screen his face a bit, and he was sure to keep his expression impassive and unreadable. Still, his cold demeanor did not waylay the reporters.

            “Mr. Holmes!”

            “Mr. Holmes, what do you make of Moriarty’s acquittal?”

            “Can you confirm if Moriarty visited you the day he was acquitted?”

            “We have sources who say he approached your home.”

            “Look here please!”

            “Mr. Holmes, just a word—”

            With a sharp snap of the door of the familiar black car that Mycroft had sent ahead of time, the sounds were cut off quite suddenly. The din became muffled and manageable now. Sherlock appreciated the tinted windows. Seeing the reporters swarm around him like locusts for the sake of some line to twist and sell so others could feel a bit better about their lives made him physically ill.

            Without a word of greeting or acknowledgement, the driver began to pull the car away from the curb, heading towards Mycroft’s building out of the way where he held all of his secret meetings. The drive was a short one, but it felt much to long for Sherlock Holmes, who preferred if everything moved as fast as his mind did.

            Still, it took about twenty minutes for the car to arrive at the grand place. Sherlock never really did like it, nor was he impressed. White walls towered up for three stories, pillars holding up arches and each wall being dominated by no less than four windows per face. There was a parking area nearby which was suspiciously clean, and a few bicycles were leaning on the iron fencing round the house, although Sherlock doubted that they had ever been ridden before. Yes, upon closer inspection, the bikes were fairly new, albeit a bit damp still from yesterday’s storm. Their attempts to look normal and unassuming were adorable at best.

            Sherlock adjusted his jacket a little, pulling the hems in place, before striding up the stairs and putting up a hand to open one of the polished wooden doors. Before he could even get a hand on it, however, it swung open to reveal Mycroft in a suit and carrying his umbrella, the point of it pressed into the ground so he could use it as a makeshift cane. He had a smile on his face, but it was forced and plastic.

            “Sherlock.”

            “Mycroft.” Sherlock pushed past his brother and entered the warmly furbished building. Directly to his right was a sitting area, which was empty but for a single old man reading a newspaper, a cane resting across his legs. Upon seeing Sherlock, he lifted the cane and pressed the butt of it into the ringer on the wall next to him.

            “It’s alright,” Mycroft called from the foyer before appearing at Sherlock’s side. “It’s alright, I called him over.”

            In a few moments, however, a pair of well-dressed men entered the room, their shoes covered with the sort of covers you wear in a crime scene or in a laboratory to keep from contaminating the workspace. One of them had a handkerchief in his hand.

            “Oh, please, Mycroft,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re not seriously going to try and knock me out, are you?”

            “Standard procedure.”

            “I would weep if I’m considered ‘standard’ around here.”

            Mycroft stared at Sherlock, his expression unreadable. Sherlock kept half an eye on the men that had paused on either side of him, waiting for the word from their superior.

            “Oh, for God’s sake,” Mycroft rolled his eyes and swinging his umbrella into the air. “Alright, just get a bloody bag and put it over his head. For all the good it’ll do.”

            Obediently, the one of the men on Sherlock’s side pulled out a bag large enough for his head from his suit. It seemed to have just materialized from within his jacket. Sherlock returned Mycroft’s eye roll with his own as the soft material blacked out his vision. It was a very expensive bag. He could tell from the feeling of the cloth. It was also very dark and black inside. They had taken care to choose material that wouldn’t let much light through. As Sherlock was guided out of the building with two hands on the small of his back, he took in a deep breath. There was the distinct smell of cigar smoke—Indian brand—but it was stale. At least a week old. No one would be smoking inside a bag, so that meant that the man that had brought out this bag had either used it on someone who had just finished smoking or smoked himself.

            Sherlock counted two more steps than there were at the front (he had counted, of course, when he had come in the first time), so he could only assume they were going out another exit. The deplorable stench, in any case, indicated they were taking a rather back-water route. Sherlock’s shoe splashed a little. Clearly, they were in a place that did not get much sun to still have puddles of rainwater.

            In due time, Sherlock was shoved into a car—none too gently either—and they were off. Of course, he had to keep the bag on, but that didn’t prove much of a problem. In less than a minute, they were making a right turn, and Sherlock immediately began to trace their route. For a bit over half a mile, they drove for a relatively straight rout until they turned right. Confident that his counting was right, Sherlock decided they had turned onto Green Street. Not a minute later, they had turned left onto A4202—left a toll zone, entered a toll zone, left the toll zone, entered a toll zone, left a toll zone—so the next left had to have been onto Piccadilly. Moments after, they were taking another right onto the Duke of Wellington PI, then banked left onto Grosvenor. Then it was a right onto Victoria Street, a left onto the Vauxhall Bridge, which they stayed on over the trademark River Thames, which Sherlock could hear even with the cars running over it, and finally they stopped about a mile off the bridge, when they had turned onto Albert Embankment. The car stopped and a door was opened. Sherlock was pulled out and walked up a set of stairs before being ushered through a pair of doors. There were a few more steps down a rather narrow hall (Sherlock’s shoulders were brushing the edges of the walls) before he was pushed into an elevator; their small group was rising for at least a minute, which was plenty of time for Sherlock to gather his bearings. From the distance and time that they were travelling down the Albert Embankment and from the severity of the situation that Mycroft had pushed upon him, the only place that they could’ve been was—

            “Take that ridiculous thing off of him,” a severe, no-nonsense voice spoke up. It was decidedly feminine and from a woman that had either gone through quite a bit of emotional trauma or else was on the older side of things, judging by the underlying grit in her tone.

            With a flourish, Mycroft pulled the bag from Sherlock’s head. He blinked for a moment at the sudden light and appreciatively took a deep breath of cool air.  After, he opened his eyes and took a quick glance around the room. Everything was sleek and made of glass and had a distinct modern feel. Unfortunately, there was very little personal décor about the place. From where he was, Sherlock couldn’t see any photos or signs that the owner of the room had any familial or other relationships. The windows before him—which also happened to be the back of the room—looked over London, the cars in the streets rolling by like an army of ants and buildings a messy jumble of puzzle pieces strewn about the city. London always was frustratingly disorderly, sometimes.

            The view from the windows only confirmed what Sherlock already knew—that is, their location.

            “Wouldn’t it have been better to knock him out, instead?” the voice asked, and Sherlock turned his attention to a woman that was more than a head shorter than him—nearly a whole foot—and she was wearing high heeled shoes. He estimated she was in her seventies at least. Her white hair cut short and close to her head. It was clear that she had seen quite a lot in her years. She was dressed in an efficient black suit that had been cut by a personal tailor. She wore a wedding ring, a single silver loop around her neck, and a black watch. On her ears were two diamond studs. To sell all the things she was wearing would likely fetch nearly thirteen to fourteen hundred pounds. At her side was a young man perhaps in his thirties, now, a tablet in his hand. He was staring at Sherlock almost apprehensively, which made the latter smile a little internally.

            “Wouldn’t have made a difference, I’m afraid,” Sherlock answered for Mycroft. The old woman did not blink, but did turn her attention to him at last.

            “So you’re Sherlock Holmes?” she sighed a little, glancing him over. “The papers didn’t do you justice.”

            “Justice about what?”

            “About your arrogance.”

            Well, she wasn’t wrong.

            “I’ll get right to the point, then, Mr. Holmes. At the moment, you’re—”

            “—at 85 Albert Embankment, London Borough of Lambeth, on the fiftieth floor. Better known as the SIS Building or MI6 Building, headquarters, of course, to the English Secret Intelligence Service,” Sherlock rolled off his tongue, his tone simply oozing boredom. “She’s right, Mycroft, you really should’ve knocked me out when you had the chance.”

            Mycroft looked rather put off at that.

            The woman in front of him, however, did not miss a beat.

            “Yes, that’s right. At least you know your street names.” She did not sound as impressed as others might’ve been—but neither did she sound half as annoyed.

            “You may call me M,” she continued. “I’m the head of the Secret Intelligence Service.”

            There was a moment of silence.

            “I’m sorry, am I supposed to be impressed?” Sherlock asked in the blandest of tones.

            This woman named M did not seem particularly ruffled. Instead, she folded her hands in front of her and told him, “We brought you here today because we want you to take a case for us—given that, of course, you will try and keep yourself out of the papers.”

            “That’s easier said than done.”

            “You’ll be working with one of my agents,” she continued as if she had not been interrupted. She strode to her desk and sat in the leather seat behind the glass table top. “He was on this case at the beginning, and he wants to see it through.”

            “Wait a moment,” Sherlock began, narrowing his eyes and frowning a little.

            “You’ll be tracking down whoever took a hard drive with the information of all secret service agents in this department. He’s already released five identities of our agents.”

            Sherlock immediately thought back to the video that John had discovered inadvertently earlier that morning. He was not an endorser of coincidence _or_ fate, but it was certainly strange and rather suspicious that John had come across the video by accident.

            “I assume you’ve already deleted the video off of YouTube,” Sherlock blinked. M stared at his for a moment before saying, “So you’ve seen it.”

            “A colleague of mine showed it to me not an hour ago,” answered Sherlock.

            “Yes, we’ve deleted it—probably just after your friend saw it.”

            “He’s not a friend.”

            “There will be five more next week, and the five currently exposed are already being targeted. Of course, we appreciate all the help you can provide, and we’ll reimburse you—”

            “ _Wait_ ,” Sherlock shut his eyes momentarily, gathering his patience. “I haven’t said I’ve agreed to this case.”

            At this, M seemed nonplussed.

            “Well, why ever not?” she asked. “For what reason could you have to refuse a case involved in national security?”

            Sherlock blinked, glanced at Mycroft to double check to make sure M was not joking, then replied, “It’s boring.”

            “Ma’am,” Mycroft finally stepped in before an argument could ensue, “my brother would be more than willing to participate in this case. He just needs some…encouragement.”

            “I already promised reimbursement.”

            “This seems a bit too troublesome to be worth it,” Sherlock commented.

            “Welcome to the job,” a new voice drifted into the room. They all turned to look towards the glass doors at the entrance of the room. Standing inside one of the doors, hand in his suit pocket and the other trembling at his side (minutely, but still shaking, as Sherlock quickly observed), was an aging, blue eyed man who seemed to be on the brink between falling from glory or about to reach the peak of it.

            “Everyone, this is—”

            “Bond,” the man introduced himself, striding forward with a hand extended towards Sherlock, correctly deciding that the tallest in the room was the one that had been brought in for the case. And if he read the papers, the guess could not be too far off.

            “James Bond,” he gave his full name, stopping in front of Sherlock. The consulting detective glanced down at the hand, which was also shaking minutely, until the agent took the hint and withdrew it, pocketing his hand, once more.

            “This is the agent that will be working with you,” M supplied. “He’s 007, one of our top agents.”

            “You must be joking,” Sherlock said bluntly. 007 tilted his head a little to the side and shifted a little.

            “Excuse me?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. He kept the tone of a cordial conversation, but it was clear that he was not exactly warming up to Sherlock.

            “I’m just saying you’re much less impressive than I thought the secret service agents of the entire country would be,” Sherlock explained. “I think my brother could take you down”—behind him, Sherlock could sense Mycroft shift uncomfortably—“and that is just _sad,_ you know.”

            To 007’s credit, he didn’t betray any expression.

            “Mr. Holmes,” M prompted him from her desk, causing him to turn and face her. “Will you take the case or won’t you?”

            Sherlock thought about what John would say if he were standing next to him. Of course, he would insist that Sherlock take the case for the sake of the country and the lives at stake, but it was simply too _boring._ It was mind-gratingly uninteresting.

            Then again, Sherlock found himself unwilling to go back to the apartment without something to show for seeing Mycroft, and then there was the money from Mycroft to be considered. It was quite a large sum. When John had refused to work for Mycroft to spy on Sherlock, he denied quite a large amount of pounds along with the refusal. Sherlock couldn’t very well say no to Mycroft without John, at the very least, mocking him a little about it. And he felt that John, for whatever reason, would thoroughly enjoy hearing about a case in the secret intelligence agency.

            “I suppose it would kill some time,” Sherlock finally rolled his eyes and sighed. “I’ll need to know everything on the case you’ve managed to gather so far. I trust you’re a bit more efficient than Scotland Yard.”

            “Our head analysts are at your disposal,” M told him, satisfied that he agreed. “Bond, would you—?”

            “Yes, ma’am,” Bond nodded. “Mr. Holmes, this way…”

            The agent gestured towards the door and followed behind him as Sherlock exited the room.

            “Your brother better be as good as they say, Mycroft,” he heard M mutter to his brother as he left.

            “Better,” Mycroft replied confidently. 


	3. Introduction :Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Child's play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE  
> but only for like -9 seconds b/c #finals  
> trying to get back into the groove of writing in this style v.v

            Sherlock took the opportunity to glance around and memorize as many details as he could. It was not every day that a civilian could come and visit the secret service department, and while Sherlock himself didn’t find the building any more interesting than the next (in the end, it was still made of mortar, wood, and brick), he had the feeling John would find it interesting. He was going to grill Sherlock for all the littlest, pettiest things, Sherlock knew.

            The place was a jigsaw puzzle of old versus new. Sherlock followed the secret service agent into hallways where one side was only a single long window overlooking London (Sherlock suspected that they were one-way windows, and, of course, they would be bullet proof) and the other side being white painted wall and into rooms that had a distinct Victorian, rustic feel to them, the rooms carved intricately of warm wood and full of red and amber. Heavy maroon curtains shrouded the arched windows in these rooms. The carpeting muffled the pair’s footsteps considerably. A few paces later, they were back in a hallway without any doors or windows at all, and it was metallic and lit painfully synthetically. One of the bulbs flickered overhead as the passed underneath it.

            “In here, please,” 007 indicated towards the elevator at the end of the hall. Obediently, Sherlock stepped inside, taking in the three glass sides in the back and on the sides. AT the moment, they were surrounded by the dark interior of the elevator shaft. Sherlock surmised that the higher or lower they went, more interesting things would reveal themselves.

            007 stepped inside after Sherlock, who moved back to make room. 007 pressed one of the buttons—the third to lowest—and a small circle of light came to life around it. The silent duo stood impassively as the elevator made its swift descent. The elevator shaft outside the elevator failed to change much.

            At last, they arrived at their destination. The elevator came to a smooth stop before the door slid open soundlessly. 007 led the way out, Sherlock following after. They had exited onto a raised platform –almost like a fire escape—overlooking a room full of computers and their handlers. It was full of the sound of tapping keys, but there was very little verbal communication, here. This room was also completely white, including the computers, which Sherlock noted with some internal eye-rolling. There was a limit to these sorts of things, wasn’t there?

            One of the workers there looked up as he heard Sherlock and 007’s approach. Recognizing Bond, said assistant turned and headed towards the front, where by far the largest screen in the room was mounted. On it were complicated computer systems and code that Sherlock barely recognized. His areas of expertise weren’t in the fields of computer tracking, after all.

            “Coming?” asked Bond, and Sherlock turned to see that the agent was already at the base of the staircase. Sherlock followed him silently. As he reached the bottom, 007 led the way to the front of the room, where the assistant and another man was standing, although Sherlock would’ve thought him still a university student. He was youthful and narrow-shouldered, without muscle and his head of hair still full and curled. Framed glasses were perched on his thin nose. He seemed to be the youngest in the room, and he also seemed to be the one in charge.

            “007,” he greeted Bond with the slightest of smirks. “And who is this?”

            “Sherlock Holmes,” replied Bond, who came to a stop in front of the younger man. “He’s here to help us with the investigation.”

            “Ah, the private detective I’ve heard about.”

            “ _Consulting_ detective,” Sherlock clarified. “And you might be?”

            “Q,” he replied with a smile, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

            Similarly with 007, Sherlock did not take Q’s hand. Q withdrew it when it was obvious Sherlock was not one to indulge in such pleasantries, instead pocketing it before asking, “What can I do for you gentlemen? I doubt you came down just to say hello.”

            “I was hoping you could catch Mr. Holmes up with the status of the case,” 007 told Q, who promptly replied, “Of course.” The young analyst turned back to the small laptop sitting patiently on the table in front of him and typed in a few commands with swift, practiced fingers. “This is all the data that we’ve collected so far.” The screen in front of them came alive with multiple different windows, complete with images, police reports, lists of suspects, and other things still obscured by the information layered in the front.

            “Would you like me to—”

            “Don’t, you’d only annoy me,” Sherlock cut off Q’s offer to explain the figures before them. Looking somewhat nonplussed, he stepped to the side as Sherlock advanced, his gaze cast up towards the screen, drawing connections and seeing patterns. This was familiar and well known to him, put him in his element: seeing things that others could not, discovering congruencies that were invisible to others. It empowered Sherlock, assured him that he was, after all, a different breed from these other mundane minds. Now if only John were here to fill in the blank space at Sherlock’s side…

            “Have you got anything?” 007 interrupted Sherlock. He blinked and turned to face 007, annoyed that he had spoken when Sherlock had just asked Q to be silent. Bond’s expression was impassive, although Sherlock had the distinct feeling 007 had gone out of his way to try and ruffle Sherlock.

            “A lot, actually,” Sherlock proclaimed, but when on, “but there’s nothing to help with the case.”

            “Excuse me?” Q stepped in, hands in his pockets and his brow furrowed, as if the implication that the data was anything less than enlightening was a personal offense. Seeing as he was the head analyst, that was probably the case.

            “Well, there are many things you can get from these…” Sherlock waved his hand in the air for lack of word. “Data” seemed a bit too gratifying.

            “Anyway,” Sherlock continued, “I can tell you, for instance, that that man is having an affair with this woman _here_ ”—Sherlock placed a finger on the touchpad of the laptop, which made Q visibly stiffen, and brought a window from the back layer to the front—“as you can see from the consistencies between their schedules—there, look, see? She’s leaving her home within the same twenty minutes he’s done with his day job—and the bills that can’t be accounted for in the renovations in the man’s home. I doubt the woman knows anything about his family, though.

            “And this young lady here is part of a drug trade, although she’s not taking the narcotics herself—smart girl, the products she’s handling seem rather low grade. She could do better—and—” Sherlock paused abruptly through his rant, blinking as he minimized one window to expose another that was previously hidden. In it, he could recognize some of the books in the bookcase and baubles stacked on the fireplace, as well as the familiar wallpaper. A few things were cut off in the frame, like the skull that Sherlock usually threw around like a football and the bookcase opposite the one in view, but it was certainly his apartment that he was staring into. He quickly judged the placement of the hidden camera.

            “Mr. Holmes,” Q began, but Sherlock was already whipping out his cellphone and ringing up John, who picked up within a few rings.

            “Hello?”

            “It’s me,” Sherlock greeted him. “Is your laptop open?”

            “What?” John’s voice had a clear frown in it.

            “Your laptop, the thing that you use to do whatever it is you do—what was it, _blog_?—is it _open_?”

            “Mr. Holmes, if I could just have a moment,” Q tried again, but Sherlock only held up a hand to stop him in his tracks.

            There was a period of movement before John confirmed, “Yes, Sherlock, it is. Why? You’re still working on the case from Mycroft, aren’t you?”

            “Close it.”

            “The laptop?”

            “What is the thing that we’ve been talking about for the past minute, John? _Yes,_ the laptop!”

            “Alright, alright. Calm down,” John sighed, sounding somewhat put off but otherwise accommodating. He was obviously too used to Sherlock and his odd requests.

            “Don’t open it again for the next day or two,” Sherlock advised him as John came onto the screen, looking over the computer for something out of the ordinary. Sherlock could see John’s evident confusion as he didn’t see anything amiss on the screen itself.

            “What’s going on, Sherlock?”

            “They’ve been using the camera on the computer to watch us,” Sherlock explained—and even then, he saw John spot the small light that came on when the webcam was active.

            “We’re looking at you right now,” added Sherlock for effect. Immediately, John leaped back, glaring at the screen and then back at the camera, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Then he gave a single, sarcastic salute before the image careened and swung forward. Then it was black.

            “I’ve shut it,” John told Sherlock. “Good luck on the case—and for God’s sake, tell them to stay out of my computer.”

            “There are more important things to worry about than your blog, John,” said Sherlock.

            “Bye, Sherlock,” John bade him before cutting the line. Sherlock withdrew the phone from his ear and watched the screen (“call ended: John”) until the light dimmed before pocketing it. Then he snapped around to glare at 007, who looked as calm as ever. He nodded over Sherlock’s shoulder at Q—“It wasn’t me that was recording you and your friend”—so Sherlock rounded on Q, instead, who was doing his best not to seem intimidated by Sherlock’s rather intimidating aura.

            “You were visited by one of the most notorious criminals in the country,” Q explained without being prompted. “If Moriarty is giving you house calls, then who knows what else is going on in that apartment? You’ve come into contact with many illustrious people, Mr. Holmes, and since you’re not associated with the _government—_ ”

            “You wanted to see if I would become a criminal,” finished Sherlock, who had heard this argument too many times now to be overly offended. “Well, if you wanted to check, all you had to do was ask.”

            Q stared at him.

            “I hear that’s more polite than hacking into one’s roommate’s computer to spy on the person through a webcam,” Sherlock continued testily.

            When it was clear that Q was not going to waste any more of his own time trying to justify his actions (they were most likely from higher orders, anyhow), Sherlock asked him, “Is there _any_ agent from the video that is still alive?”

            “One,” Q answered immediately, expression unreadable. “We’ve got him under surveillance and twenty-four hour guard.”

            “What’s his name? Where does he live?”

            “He’s been moved to a safe location.”

            “Where is that?” Sherlock demanded. How was he expected to help if these people did not give him the answers to the questions he asked? “Does anyone else know of this place?”

            “That’s confidential,” Q frowned.

            “To hell with confidential!” Sherlock exclaimed. “My God, was I hired to help you or not?”

            “Q,” 007 finally stepped in, coming to stand at Sherlock’s side and regarding the analyst steadily. With a frustrated roll of the eyes, Q finally relented.

            “He’s underground, now. Gone under the radar. He’s living in a small house in the suburbs.”

            “His name?”

            “William Graham,” Q said without bothering to check. He must’ve kept an eye on this man for so long now that he could probably tell Sherlock his height, weight, and his last meal.

            “I’ll assume you have my number on your supercomputer there,” Sherlock pointed towards the laptop, “so text me the address. I’ll be heading there, now.”

            “I’ll come with you,” 007 said—although it wasn’t really an offer, more of a statement of fact. Sherlock stared at him, as if expecting him to burst into laughter and say it was all a big joke, before saying flatly, “The next time I need help from a neurotic alcoholic, I will make sure to ask for it.” Without checking to see if 007 was offended or not, Sherlock strode out of the room, ignoring all the averted stares as he passed the workers. Up the stairs and into the elevator he went, impatiently jabbing the “up” button. Finally, the elevator came to a halt and the door opened to admit Sherlock. He stepped inside and pressed one of the buttons. They were all unmarked, but from counting the amount of floors that he and 007 had travelled down and the button that 007 had pressed to come to whatever floor this was, Sherlock was able to guess which button led to the ground floor.

            As the doors slid to a close, a quick hand appeared in between, coaxing the elevator open, again. There, in the entrance, stood the great 007.

            “The next time I _want_ to put up with an arrogant, egotistical, sociopathic, _consulting_ detective,” he greeted Sherlock, “I will make sure to ask.” He then joined Sherlock inside the elevator and coolly waited for the doors to close again.

            “Show off,” Sherlock couldn’t help muttering under his breath like a child. As the elevator began its ascent, he swore 007 gave the slightest of chuckles. 


	4. Case 1 (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, it's this guy again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blah. sorry about the uneventful chapters ;;

            John snatched up the phone as soon as it rang, throwing down the mind-numbingly dull paper he had been reading about some other celebrity scandal onto his lap.

            “Not another secret camera, is it?” John asked as soon as he saw the caller ID, flipping through another page or two of the article.

            “Get out of the house, Watson,” Sherlock implored him.

            “Sorry?” John frowned, looking up from the paper to frown around the room. Was there a bomb in there, now?

            “The house, John, get out of the house!” Sherlock shouted. “I’ll be there soon. And get Ms. Hudson out of there, while you’re at it.”

            “Sherlock, what’s going on?”

            “John, a man has just died in his own home and there’s going to be another victim—soon. _Please_ , get out of the house!”

            “Alright, alright, I’m going,” John reassured his friend, grabbing the first jacket that he saw and hurrying out of the room. He risked a glanced over his shoulder if he could possibly spot the danger that Sherlock was afraid of, but the room seemed as benign and cluttered as ever.

            “Ms. Hudson!” Watson called, wrenching the door open and holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder. “Ms. Hudson, we have to go!”

            Presently, John heard the telltale creaks and footsteps and Ms. Hudson hurried down the stairway. She was dressed in a simple, rather thin shawl and a comfortable shirt and jeans. Clearly, she was not expecting John to be summoning her from her quarters.

            “John?” she frowned, but John seized her arm and steered her down towards the front door. “John, what’s going on?”

            “Sherlock says it’s not safe,” John explained, which was enough of an explanation for him, but not enough for Ms. Hudson. She spluttered out protests the whole way out, but John paid her no mind. He was quite used to Ms. Hudson’s rather flighty and excitable nature.

            “Sherlock, are you still there?” John spoke into the phone as he and Ms. Hudson left the building. “We’re outside, now.”

            “Good. Don’t go back in.”

            _That much is obvious, isn’t it?_ John thought to himself impatiently, but Sherlock was already charging ahead.

            “I’m texting you an address. Get a cab and go there—now.”

            “And Ms. Hudson?”

            “Oh, how should I know?” Sherlock snapped peevishly. “Tell her to get a cup of tea or something.” With that, Sherlock hung up. John blinked and pulled the phone away from his ear. Within the next three seconds, it vibrated, announcing he had received the text. He glanced over the address and calculated that it would be about twenty or so minutes from here, which meant Sherlock would be expecting him in ten. Meanwhile, Ms. Hudson was dithering in John’s ear. He wasn’t quite sure what she was going on about, but eventually, he interrupted her, “Ms. Hudson, Sherlock needs me for the rest of the day, but you shouldn’t go back inside.”

            Ms. Hudson stared at John as if he had grown a third eye. “Excuse me? Then where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to be doing?”

            “I—I don’t know, Ms. Hudson,” John tried to shake her off, feeling guilty for leaving her but anxious to get moving. He waved a hand at a passing cab, but it passed him by. He threw out his hands to his sides in frustration.

            “Well, I can’t just stand out here all night!” exclaimed Ms. Hudson. “And all my things are inside the house! I don’t have my wallet or my keys or—”

            “Sorry, Ms. Hudson, I really am,” Watson shook his head, hailing a cab at last and opening the door. He patted his pockets until he found a few bills and took them out. He shoved them into Ms. Hudson’s palm and told her, “Why don’t you go buy yourself a nice cup of tea, Ms. Hudson? Sherlock and I will be back before you know it, and he’ll have solved the case and we’ll be able to go back inside and it will be like none of this ever happened.”

            Before she could protest, John hopped into the cab and relayed the address to the driver. Within a few more moments, they were off.

            “Fast as you can, please,” John added in hopes of hurrying the cabbie. Still, it made a nominal difference—if any, at all. John’s phone buzzed again after seven minutes of driving (John had learned it was a good habit to keep track of the passing minutes, as of late). Of course, it was Sherlock, and he was asking if John was there yet.

            _Another ten minutes out,_ John replied.

            _Hurry._

“A little bit faster, please?” John prodded the cabbie, who seemed a little disgruntled by John’s continuous prompting. John was too accustomed to it to care much.

            Twelve minutes later ( _You’re late, John_ ), John was stepping out of the cab and taking in the situation as well as he could through the murmuring crowd. The building before him was an apartment building not unlike his own, the entire construct made of white and gray stone. There were no lights on inside it, but that was probably because all the tenants were outside, at the moment. As far as he could see, there were no signs of destruction or decay or anything that indicated that there was an attack or murder that was worth Sherlock’s time. There were police cars and ambulances, although the sirens had been shut off and the paramedics were more or less packing up, which could only mean that they weren’t needed anymore. The policemen, however, were still milling about, scratching their heads and frowning. And a few looked rather disgruntled. They had probably been speaking with Sherlock. John paid the cabbie and stepped forward, ducking under the yellow cautionary tape. Immediately, a few policemen approached and held up their hands.

            “You’re not allowed to be here,” one of them frowned. “No one is. Please get back behind the line.”

            “My friend is in there,” John nodded towards the building, trying not to sound too terse. “Sherlock Holmes? He should be consulting on the case.”

            The pair of policemen glanced at each other uncertainly—well, John supposed it could’ve been possible that, if he had been a regular civilian, he had seen Sherlock on the news and was trying to get inside so he could see the _real_ thing—so John pulled out his cell phone and began dialing Sherlock.

            “What are you doing?” asked one of the officers.

            “Well, clearly you don’t believe me,” John shrugged, putting the phone to his cheek, “so I’m just getting some authority.” The phone rang exactly once before it was picked up.

            “John? Where are you, now?”

            “Outside the door,” John told Sherlock. “I’m having some trouble getting in.”

            “ _Anderson!_ ” Sherlock’s shout echoed onto the street. Some ruckus later, Anderson was trudging out of the building, looking particularly disgruntled.

            “He’s fine, boys,” Anderson grumbled, waving a hand. “Let him in.”

            John ended the call as the policemen stepped aside. He gave Anderson a tight, sympathetic smile. “Thanks.”

            “No problem,” Anderson assured John in a way that made it sound like it would’ve been a problem if Jesus rose again from the dead and asked Anderson for the same favor. Pressing his lips together and nodding once, John followed Anderson into the apartment.

            It was dead silent inside (literally, John noted to himself with an internal smile). It didn’t help that the lights were all off, casting a blue hue over the atmosphere. John cast his gaze around the hallway—decorated with a wallpaper covered with small red flowers on blue, vertical stripes, had a few side tables and mirrors placed every few feet or so, thin carpeting underfoot (maybe the murderer left something behind on the fibers? But Anderson wasn’t taking much care about where he stepped, so John assumed he shouldn’t have to, either)—as Anderson led him to the third floor.

            “Are these all apartments?” asked John. Anderson grunted in response. John blinked and pressed his lips together, as was customary of him, but didn’t press the matter. He supposed that, since Sherlock always gave him a hard time, Anderson was not much inclined to tell John the time of day.

            The third floor, curiously, had only three rooms, whose doors were all thrown open. There was a quiet murmur going on in the room, interrupted by Sherlock’s familiar outbursts of annoyance. Anderson moodily led him towards the third, farthest door at the back of the hall. As they walked, John stole a glance or two through the two other doors they passed. The first was a larger room that looked more like a kitchen-living room ensemble, and, when John compared it to the following room, easily the larger of the two. He couldn’t see all of it in its entirety, but from what he could tell, the first room was connected to the second. As John passed, he saw an officer stride from the first room to the second, which looked like a bedroom of some sort. It seemed quite grand. Each room was occupied with officers scratching their heads. So far, John didn’t see anything particularly unusual about this case. Since he couldn’t tell why Sherlock would take it per his usual standards, he decided that it was somehow connected to the government case (John suddenly felt immensely thankful towards Sherlock at that moment).

            “He’s in here,” Anderson grumbled, stopping at the end of the hall and turning around to face John. He indicated with one flippant hand towards the third open door. Nodding his thanks, John turned the corner and strode inside.

            It was a simple bedroom, especially compared to the first, with one twin poster bed and a dresser and bookshelf. There was a single window in the back that looked over the street—still filled with pedestrians (John could hear them yammer even through the glass)—with thin curtains pushed to the sides. Standing in the middle of the room was Lestrade and Donovan, and in the corner, pacing a little and holding his hands to the sides of his face, was Sherlock—and a man that John didn’t recognize. He was smartly dressed—much more so than the other people standing in the room. John felt extremely underdressed, in fact, when he walked in.

            “Sherlock?” he prompted, glancing curiously at the stranger who, apparently, was just content to watch Sherlock work.

            At the sound of his voice, Sherlock’s head immediately shot up, snapping himself out of whatever complicated and incredible thought process he was having.

            “Good, you’re here.” He strode forward with one of his hands half raised, waving John inside. Frowning a little, John took a few more steps into the room. On the floor was the tape outline of a body—splayed out as usual—with a notable _lack_ of something on the carpeting.

            “So obviously that’s where the victim fell, yes. Stop staring, John, you’re gaping,” Sherlock snapped his fingers in front of John’s face. John blinked and straightened up to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

           “See anything?” Sherlock asked, waving his hand over the tape impatiently. John blinked, looked down at the tape again, sighed and shrugged. Sherlock was just going to tell him what was missing, anyway—most condescendingly, but John was learning to become very immune to that. He was beginning to believe that he was just a sound board for Sherlock to speak to on occasion.

            “Blood, John, there’s no _blood,_ ” Sherlock finally blurted out after perhaps a second, clearly frustrated that John had not picked up the detail. John blinked once in response. Behind Sherlock, John spotted the other man’s lips quirk in the faintest of smiles before he settled back into his unreadable poker face. Behind him, he heard Donovan chuckle derisively.

            “I can see that, yes,” John nodded. “So was it poison or heart attack or something?”

            “I took a look at the corpse before it left,” Sherlock assured John. “Stiffness and rigor mortis that places his death at about four this morning, signs of a seizure just before death…”

            “So what? Was it poisoning or a stroke or something else?” John repeated his question. Sherlock shook his head, seeming annoyed that John hadn’t caught on, yet.

            “Don’t you _see,_ John? Maybe it would’ve helped if you saw the body. Actually, let’s be perfectly honest here, it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference, would it? Now, moving on to more important things—”

            “Excuse me,” the man that John didn’t know finally spoke up, his voice calm and collected. He had a very distinct air of authority about him. John immediately felt the urge to straighten up and salute, which he hadn’t felt in a while, now. In any case, he stood up a bit straighter and tilted his head to the side a bit.

            “I’m sorry, who are you?” he asked.

            The other man replied readily enough. “Bond. James Bond.”

            “He’s a secret service agent like my dear brother, but that’s not important right now,” Sherlock tried to call upon John’s attention once more. John privately wondered if it was legal or not to tell a civilian this man in front of him was a secret service agent.

            “Yes, yes, the case,” John nodded impatiently, but Agent Bond took another step forward and intervened, “Actually, your friend Holmes already solved the case.”

            “I—what?” John turned towards Sherlock, who was pressing his hands together and putting them to his nose. “Were you going to tell me this? What was all that analysis for, then? Why are you all still here?” John was now addressing Lestrade, who sighed and wordlessly pointed towards the ceiling. Frowning, John looked up.

            “Mr. Holmes insisted we stay a moment while he tried to deduce something,” Agent Bond explained as John felt himself stiffen. “He hasn’t been very specific, although the message on the ceiling seems significant, to say the least. Perhaps you could shed some light on the issue, Dr. Watson.”

            “That might take a moment,” John said, not even realizing that he had in fact never mentioned his name to Agent Bond, and he certainly never mentioned he was a doctor. He was distracted.

            _I O U._


End file.
